The electronic opera “Octavia.Trepanation” shows bizarre scenes at its world premiere at the Holland festival in Amsterdam: ranging from looking into Lenin’s skull to Russian hymns on Socialism to digressions on Roman history. This work of art wonders: Can art explain tyranny?

By Jörn Florian Fuchs

Upon entering the auditorium, you hear soft sounds gradually getting louder and softer, mixed with electronic crackle. There’s a gigantic skull on the stage of the Muziekgebouw at the Ij River in Amsterdam; headless figures move softly back and forth in front of it. Those are soldiers of the Terracotta Army; they lament in delicate, textless cantilena. Suddenly the head turns and Lenin incarnate looks at us with threateningly glowing eyes.

A prefect, who’s been involved in the discussions and philosophical bickering, comes in as a loopy Asian. Director Boris Yukhananov from the Moscow Stanislavsky Electrotheatre creates a wondrous clash of various time layers with his staging of “Octavia”; the question about power, the loss of power, and tyranny are at the centre of this piece. Furthermore, Lenin’s head has to undergo a trepanation, i.e. being drilled out. And his skull turns out to be a true treasure chest.

Dmitri Kourliandsky’s musical score expands the complex structure of the play by a very peculiar, skewed world. They sing in Russian. Kourliandsky stretches the recording of a revolutionary song beyond recognition to serve as an ostinate basis; furthermore the choir interjects; and the soloists often have recitative moments with smaller arioso parts as well as complex live electronic music.

Volcanic eruption in the head of a dictator

While sometimes a dome, sometimes a volcanic eruption or—for a brief moment—friendly clouds are projected within Lenin’s skull, a carriage with skeletonized horses drives by a few floors further down, directly in front of the audience; Agrippina appears as a ghost; the titular Octavia, from the play that is probably erroneously attributed to Seneca, is beautifully embodied by a whole choir of women. And on top of that Leon Trotzky appears, worshipping Lenin.

Trotzky is an actor here, and suddenly we find ourselves in the middle of a live audio drama with church bells, rataplan of hooves, and the atmosphere of a market. You don’t need to follow all the details of this brilliant mashup, but ought to rather let yourself in for this all-senses-activating game made up of lightness, pathos, and message.

And there is a message indeed when Trotzky at Lenin’s grave asks the survivors to now take on responsibility themselves. Just earlier the grey crowd of terracotta singer-soldiers has doffed their shapeless uniforms; the choir now appears in T-shirts—individuals instead of the masses. A beautiful sign of hope at the end of this clever post-modern piece which manages without pertinent directing gimmickry.